


Disappearing

by annabeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Insanity, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 10:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: Harry is losing himself.





	Disappearing

**Author's Note:**

> I don't remember why I wrote this this way anymore...
> 
> Written circa 2005.

He always thought Sirius would be there for him, safe and forever. He never expected to watch him slip slowly like a dream behind the Veil, disappearing, gone like the last wisps of mist in new-morning sunlight.

Harry always thought he’d be the one to punish Snape for what he’d done; he never expected to see his body sprawled across the ground, Dark Mark bloody and vivid, with no sign of life and no reason to be dead. Harry was angry then, furious that Lord Voldemort had taken away his revenge. It was a hard thing to accept, later, that Severus Snape had met his end because Voldemort discovered he was a spy. That made Harry angry as well.

It was cold. It felt, at times, like the world breathed around him, inhaling—everything swept inward and dark—then expanding like a wide round circle, but there was no light, no happiness. Harry could touch his face, but he couldn’t see, and his knees dug into his chest and all around him the cold swirled, an audible presence.

Things began to slip away… the sound of Molly Weasley’s voice stuttered and screamed in his head, then dissipated, never to return.

...words failed him, he couldn’t remember what that thing was called at the end of his arm, was it his soul? Could he breathe on his soul and bring it home?

Lily’s beautiful face vanished one day, along with her name… Sirius was a sex-kept secret, a lovely gaunt face… then it was gone… he could not remember who his godfather was… he could not remember _what_ a godfather was… he could no longer sleep. He could no longer remember what it felt like to sleep. What is sleep?

Rattling, hoarse breath fills his ears, but he cannot recall where he’s heard it before, or what it is.

But he knows happiness is gone forever.

One moment, perhaps it’s morning, but it’s cold and dark and he can’t exhale anymore. He reaches out, scrabbling against something that burns and bites his fingers—what is it?—he tries to count upwards from ten—how old is he?

Another moment passes, and another, and his memories begin to breathe, and crawl away. Who is that redhead whose face he sees so vividly—and then it’s gone? Gone forever.

Gone like Sirius. He remembers the name Sirius, remembers he is gone, cannot remember who he is or what he looks like. Is he even human?

The wounds on his hands won’t heal. They bleed and bleed, and his fingers scrape against his teeth and he tastes a metallic tang and loves it with his tongue, but he cannot remember love.

There is a moment, once, when he thinks he can feel warmth, but then it’s gone. Everything’s gone.

Harry’s gone.

Who is Harry? There is no recollection. His fingers bleed, his eyes search the darkness and see nothing. Who is me? Am I who? Can’t remember. Dreams touch down and disappear.

He remembers Sirius and his mouth against his own, but it’s sad, regretful and filled with shame, and it stays, cloying in his mind. It won’t go away. Sirius is a name and he knows it used to mean something, and he knows the pressure on his thighs was pain and revulsion and something sweet, but the wrongness of it all keeps it from being swept away, and he—who is he?—is left alone with the taste of rats and the feeling of a sewer on his skin.

He claws at his body, streaking it with blood from his oozing fingers. He cannot remember who he is, because he was good, he thinks, and sweet, and apples and cream—but the taste of food has gone the way of everything else.

But he _remembers the dementors._ He remembers the way they swept over him, touching him with their piercing cold, their clawed ice fingers. He remembers the way they come, inhaling the happiness, the thoughts, the good pleasant memories.

He remembers Voldemort, and the wicked smile on his face as he tossed him into—wherever he is now. Did Voldemort take over the prison? There is a flicker and the recognition of Azkaban, a place, a prison, filled with despair, fills him up like water and he gags on it. Voldemort is darkness, hopelessness, something he cannot forget.

He turns his head and looks for something familiar. He remembers the Dursleys, the way they looked twisted and broken on the ground. He remembers the cold.

But every moment that passes, something good creeps away, on silent unnoticed feet. Soon there is nothing left but the screams of a woman he can’t remember, the face of Voldemort sneering, the kiss of putrid air sliding down his throat...

Time tiptoes past and one moment to the next is an eternity he cannot remember, and then the Dementor is coming closer, clawed hands reaching for him...

But there is nothing more that they can take, because Harry Potter is gone.

end.


End file.
